


Two Ships

by OpenPage



Category: 21 Jump Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-04-16 18:03:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14170503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpenPage/pseuds/OpenPage
Summary: Set in 1997, a chance meeting brings two old acquaintances together.Thank you, Michelle, for gifting me the idea for this story. I feel sad things turned out the way they did, but I won't tolerate bullying. I wish you all the best in your storytelling.Note: A sequel to this story will be written once I've finished 'Cries of a Shadow' and 'Peeping Through the Closet Door. Thank you for your patience.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ute](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ute/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own 21 Jump Street or any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. 
> 
> Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.  
>  No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Based on the TV series 21 Jump Street.
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/41112643582/in/dateposted-public/)
> 
> “We're two ships that pass in the night,
> 
> And we smile when we say it's alright.
> 
> We're still here, it's just that we're out of sight.
> 
> Like those ships that pass in the night.”
> 
> Ian Hunter

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/40443817894/in/dateposted-public/)

Looking back, Dennis Booker knew if he had his time over, he would have done things differently. But Clotho had spun her ‘thread’ of human fate, Lachesis had dispensed it, and Atropos had cut the thread, severing the tie forever. Not in the traditional mythological sense of birth, life, and death, but in a more fabled sense of he’d lived, he’d loved, and he’d lost. In a mere twelve hours, his world had turned upside down, and he was left with nothing more than a memory. That, and what he knew would be a lifetime of regret. 

If only he’d done things differently...

 

**Sorry for the shortness of the teaser, there's more to come very soon.**

**In peace,**  
**OpenPage x**


	2. Long Time Gone

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/40463217344/in/dateposted-public/)

**_March 29th, 1997 (8.06 p.m.)_ **

Night fell crisp and clear in Phoenix, Arizona, the light wind blowing through the SUV’s window cooling Booker’s face. His job as a high-end private investigator took him from state to state, and this particular day—which just so happened to be his birthday—was no different. Life, overall, was a far cry from his days working for the Teshima Corporation, and an even further cry from his days at Jump Street. His penchant for fine wine, vintage motorcycles, and beautiful women—not necessarily in that order—made an impression, and his reputation often preceded him. Independently wealthy, and well respected by his peers, from an outsider’s perspective, he lived the life of Riley, and he was the envy of many in his profession. He traveled the country he loved doing a job that satisfied his fast-thinking, inquisitive mind, and on paper, it was the perfect existence. But if one probed a little deeper, the fairytale started to unravel. For all the silver linings, there was a pesky and persistent dark cloud hovering over him. His life _was_ perfect, except for one, small yet oh-so significant detail...he was still unlucky in love. At the age of thirty-two, he was a soon-to-be twice divorced bachelor, and if he were honest with himself, spending the night of his birthday alone was _not_ how he had imagined his life when he was still a starry-eyed twenty-four-year-old working as an undercover cop. And so, in true Booker fashion, he threw himself into his work. Dwelling on the negatives in life just wasn’t his style, and ever the optimist, he hadn’t entirely given up hope for a happy ever after. Who knew, maybe his first two marriages were only supposed to prepare him for the main event. Maybe, the term _third time lucky_ would apply, and he really would find true love the next time around, thereby breaking the curse and banishing the dark cloud from his life forever.

Signaling right, he turned his rented 1996 Chevrolet Tahoe into a deserted street and pulled into a curbside parking space. After winding up the window, he grabbed his suit jacket and climbed out. He’d heard good reports about the wine bar he planned to patronize, and he was looking forward to treating himself to a medium rare filet mignon, washed down with a seventy-dollar bottle of merlot. It was his birthday, after all, and if he had to spend it alone, he might as well do it in style.

Across the street, a lone figure appeared from a gated doorway. At first glance, Booker thought it was a hobo, and he instinctively checked he’d locked the Tahoe’s doors. A stolen rental meant a mountain of paperwork, and he had enough administrative work of his own to deal with since separating from his second wife, who also happened to be his secretary. It wasn’t one of his smartest decisions, but he had no regrets. Their marriage had been intensely passionate, at times volatile, but always bound by love. They’d parted on good terms, and had remained friends, but that goodwill hadn’t extended to their working relationship. And so, he had found himself alone, juggling stakeouts with paperwork, while never finding the time to interview a replacement. It made for hectic days and long, tedious nights, but he had never shied away from hard work. As far as he was concerned, the busier, the better because with his mind occupied, he didn’t have time to think about the lonely existence that was his life. That and the painful reality he wasn’t getting any younger and his wish for a family was fast becoming just that...an unattainable fantasy.

Turning his attention back to the hobo, Booker’s eyes widened slightly. Dressed in a paisley shirt, worn jeans, and scuffed sneakers, the man cut a lonely figure. But on closer inspection, it wasn’t the delicate artistry of his profile or the familiarity of his gait that caused the dark-haired investigator’s heart to dip. It was the worn bandanna keeping the man's long hair out of his eyes that had him doing a double take. The headwear evoked a flashback so powerful, he was transported back in time, and he was once again a gung-ho twenty-four-year-old undercover cop earning a living by impersonating a teenager. A tendril of déjà vu snaked down his spine, nudging his memory into full reality mode until he almost believed he was physically reliving the moment, not just remembering it. But as his eyes locked on the man’s face, there was no denying the truth. After an absence of almost eight years, Tom Hanson had crossed his path in the guise of a homeless man, and to his own surprise, a tingle of excitement raised the fine hairs on his arms. Maybe his birthday wouldn’t be a sad and lonely affair after all. Maybe catching up with an old acquaintance was just what he needed to chase the blues away.

A glimmer of light flashed in Booker’s eyes, the slow dawning of happiness animating his features, and raising his hand, he initiated first contact. “Hey, Tom!”

The hunched figure stopped, turned his head, and peered at Booker from across the street. “Can I help you?” 

The guarded tone didn't put Booker off. When he heard the discernable voice from his past, his face broke into a broad grin, and throwing his jacket over his shoulder, he hurried across the road. “It’s me, Dennis Booker. Jesus Christ, man, the people you meet when you least expect it. How the hell are you?”

As recognition dawned, a slow, wistful smile touched the corners of Tom’s lips. “Dennis. Jeez, it’s been what? Eight or nine years?”

“Almost eight,” Booker laughed, extending his hand. “I wouldn’t have recognized you if it weren’t for that bandanna. I guess some things never change, huh?”

Tom stared at the proffered hand for a moment before self-consciously wiping his palm on the seat of his jeans and giving it a shake. “Oh, I dunno about that.”

The hint of sadness in Tom’s voice, followed by the flicker of torment in his brown eyes immediately had Booker wondering why a happy, fun-loving young man now appeared a shadow of his former self. But before he could dwell on the possibility it was Tom’s stint in prison that had altered his personality, thereby making it _his_ fault, his former colleague’s face split into a familiar lopsided grin. “So, if I’m not mistaken, today’s your birthday. What are you doing in Phoenix? Do you live here?”

Surprise arched Booker’s eyebrows. “You remember my birth date? Hanson, I’m flattered.”

Tom’s head tilted seductively to the side. “There’s a lot of things I remember about you, Dennis.”

The cryptic remark sent an unexplained shiver crawling over Booker’s flesh, and feeling like an awkward schoolboy, he rubbed a nervous hand over the back of his neck. “Uh, really?”

With an evasive smile, Tom rephrased his question. “How long have you lived in Phoenix? “

The muscles in Booker’s face visibly relaxed. “I don't. I’m here on business. You?”

“Business, huh? Are you still with that Japanese insurance company?”

The effective way Tom dodged his question had Booker wondering if Tom were working undercover. The long hair and outdated attire fitted with his theory, and although his curiosity was piqued, he didn’t press the issue. “No. I only stayed there a year. I have my own P.I. company now.”

“And you’re doing very well for yourself by the looks of it,” Tom acknowledged with another smile, his eyes wandering over Booker’s expensive suit. “So, how ‘bout you invite me to dinner and we can catch up, you know, for old times’ sake. That’s if you don’t have plans, of course.”

Given the circumstances of their last parting, a flicker of surprise passed over Booker’s face. But he wasn’t about to let his neuroticism get in the way of an opportunity to spend some time with an old acquaintance. It sure as hell beat eating dinner alone, and if he were truthful with himself, he was more than a little curious about Hanson’s life post-Jump Street. Something told him there was a story there, and he was eager to dig a little deeper, if only to satisfy his own inquisitive nature. Suddenly, celebrating his birthday in a foreign city didn’t seem quite so pathetic. Things were definitely looking up, and if all went well, he might just get to right past wrongs.

“No, no plans,” he replied with a warm smile. “So, you’re welcome to join me. I was thinking of trying the Apothecary Wine Bar. Do you know it?”

With a shake of his head, Tom gave his answer. “No. Is it fancy? ‘Cause I’m not really dressed for it.”

Casting an eye over Tom’s strange ensemble, Booker made a decision. “Screw the wine bar, it’s probably pretentious as fuck anyway. Let’s find a regular bar and get a beer and a burger.”

Tom stared at Booker for several long uncomfortable moments before finally replying. “That sounds great,” he murmured, and with a glance over his shoulder, he followed Booker to his car.

_To be continued…_


	3. Who Are You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: With an evasive smile, Tom rephrased his question. “How long have you lived in Phoenix? “_
> 
> _The muscles in Booker’s face visibly relaxed. “I don't. I’m here on business. You?”_
> 
> _“Business, huh? Are you still with that Japanese insurance company?”_
> 
> _The effective way Tom dodged his question had Booker wondering if Tom were working undercover. The long hair and outdated attire fitted with his theory, and although his curiosity was piqued, he didn’t press the issue. “No. I only stayed there a year. I have my own P.I. company now.”_
> 
> _“And you’re doing very well for yourself by the looks of it,” Tom acknowledged with another smile, his eyes wandering over Booker’s expensive suit. “So, how ‘bout you invite me to dinner and we can catch up, you know, for old times’ sake. That’s if you don’t have plans, of course.”_
> 
> _Given the circumstances of their last parting, a flicker of surprise passed over Booker’s face. But he wasn’t about to let his neuroticism get in the way of an opportunity to spend some time with an old acquaintance. It sure as hell beat eating dinner alone, and if he were truthful with himself, he was more than a little curious about Hanson’s life post-Jump Street. Something told him there was a story there, and he was eager to dig a little deeper, if only to satisfy his own inquisitive nature. Suddenly, celebrating his birthday in a foreign city didn’t seem quite so pathetic. Things were definitely looking up, and if all went well, he might just get to right past wrongs._
> 
> _“No, no plans,” he replied with a warm smile. “So, you’re welcome to join me. I was thinking of trying the Apothecary Wine Bar. Do you know it?”_
> 
> _With a shake of his head, Tom gave his answer. “No. Is it fancy? ‘Cause I’m not really dressed for it.”_
> 
> _Casting an eye over Tom’s strange ensemble, Booker made a decision. “Screw the wine bar, it’s probably pretentious as fuck anyway. Let’s find a regular bar and get a beer and a burger.”_
> 
> _Tom stared at Booker for several long uncomfortable moments before finally replying. “That sounds great,” he murmured, and with a glance over his shoulder, he followed Booker to his car._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/40756621844/in/dateposted-public/)

_**March 29th, 1997 (10.42 p.m.)** _

Five beers and one Monty Burger with the lot later, and Booker was none the wiser about Tom’s life. While admitting he had quit the force three years before, Hanson remained frustratingly vague about what he did for a living. But it wasn’t in Booker’s nature to give up. As the drinks flowed, he became more outspoken, his inner tenacity coming to the fore as he continued his questioning. 

“So, do you live in Arizona?”

With a casualness that was slowly driving Booker crazy, Tom took a leisurely sip of his beer before answering. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes? What the hell does that mean?”

Sitting back in his chair, Tom folded his arms across his chest. “Exactly as it sounds. _Sometimes_ I live in Arizona, _sometimes_ I don’t.”

Draining his beer, Booker signaled the barman for another. “Jesus,” he huffed, his brow furrowing into a frown of annoyance. “I’d forgotten how aggravating you can be. Why won’t you give me a straight answer? What are you hiding? Are you on the run?”

A slow, irritating smile graced Tom’s lips, and tilting his head to one side, he studied Dennis’ perplexed expression from across the table. “Do I _look_ like I’m on the run?”

Frustrated, Booker slammed the palm of his hand down on the table. “Damn it, Hanson! Stop answering my questions with a question!”

Tom recoiled, the teasing smile fading from his lips. Surprised by the reaction, Booker wiped a shaky hand over his mouth as he watched a veil of sadness pass over Tom’s face. He had no idea what had happened to his former partner, but his intuition told him it had nothing to do with the time he’d spent in prison. His hurt was fresher, a raw, open wound that had not yet had time to heal. The torment in his eyes reflected an acute pain, a dark, personal suffering of love and loss, and for one, horrifying moment, Booker wondered if something had happened to Penhall. Immediately, a prickle of fear ran down his spine, and licking his lips, he worked some much-needed saliva into his mouth. “This...this doesn’t have anything to do with Doug, does it?”

Surprise widened Tom’s eyes. “No. Why would you ask me that?”

Tired of skirting around the issue and in need of some answers, Booker took a deep breath and came straight to the point. “You’re being evasive for a reason, Tom. Are you in trouble?”

A moody pout formed on Tom’s lower lip. “No.”

“Then why won’t you give me a straight answer?”

Nursing his beer in his hands, Tom looked down at the scratched surface of the wooden table, his mouth pulled into a tight, stubborn line. “Trust me, the less you know, the better.”

“So, you _are_ in trouble.”

It was a statement not a question, so Tom did not feel obliged to answer. And as much as he missed the intimacy of confidentiality, he refused to drag Booker or anyone else into the nightmare that had become his life. But it wasn't as simple as just staying quiet. Once Booker latched onto something, he was like a dog with a bone, and if he didn’t deflect the line of questioning, he could end up putting not only _his_ life at risk, but his former partner’s as well. He’d managed to keep a low profile since embarking on his mission, and he was starting to think he’d made a monumental mistake inviting himself to dinner. But he was tired, tired of moving around the country and tired of being alone. His obsession had consumed his life for three long years, and in a moment of weakness, he’d folded. It wasn’t surprising. Humans, by design, were social creatures, and living in solitude was starting to take its toll. Seeing Booker had roused in him a long-forgotten feeling, a slow, snaking awakening he hadn’t experienced in years, and he wanted to spend one night pretending he was still the Tom Hanson his friends and co-workers remembered. But he wasn’t, and he doubted he ever would be again. If he continued down his self-destructive path, he faced a lifetime of loneliness, and if he didn’t seize the moment and at least try to fulfill one dream, he might not get the opportunity again. For once, he wanted to be true to himself, to finally say the words he had never found the courage to say eight years ago. But he needed to tread warily. Booker was an astute sonofabitch, and the last thing he wanted was to put him in any danger. He carried enough guilt to last him a lifetime and adding to it would surely push him to the point of no return. But as he was the master of disguises, he figured he could convince Booker he was fine and dandy, while deep inside, he was slowly falling apart. After all, he did it every day, deception was his new vocation, and all he had to do was mimic the memory of his past self, and Booker wouldn’t suspect a thing. 

Or so he hoped.

Taking a deep breath, he placed his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his clasped hands. “We all have our secrets, Dennis,” he murmured, a teasing smile tilting his lips. “But that doesn’t mean we have something to hide.”

The flesh between Booker’s eyebrows puckered into a frown. “Have you lost your mind? Nothing you're saying is making sense. When you have a secret, you’re hiding something. That's what a secret is. Look it up.”

Featherlike laugh lines creased the corners of Tom’s eyes. “Yeah, you got me there,” he chuckled. “But not all secrets are bad, right?”

While there was no disputing the fact, Booker remained unconvinced. “I guess,” he replied slowly, his voice inflected with uncertainty. “But—”

“Why don’t we go back to your hotel room for a nightcap?”

The sudden request had Booker visibly floundering, but he quickly regained his composure. For some strange reason, Tom made him nervous, but he had no idea why. “Um, sure. If you want. I have a bottle of twenty-year-old scotch. I guess we could toast our reunion.”

Tom pushed back his chair. “Perfect,” he grinned. “Let’s go.”

Still unsure how Tom had managed to manipulate him so effortlessly, Booker pulled out his wallet. “Okay but let me pay the bill first.”

“Already taken care of,” Tom replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Happy birthday.”

For the briefest of moments, Booker wondered if Tom were planning to skip out without paying. But when the barman raised his hand in a gesture of farewell, he realized he was wrong. Knowing Tom had money settled some of his unease, and he suppressed a smile. His former partner had always had a more unconventional style, and although he might look like a hobo, it was undoubtedly a ruse. And the more Booker thought about it, the more likely it seemed Tom really was working undercover, despite saying he’d left the force. It made perfect sense. The strange attire, the reluctance to talk about his life all fit his theory, and he immediately felt more relaxed. The law wasn’t after Tom, Tom _was_ the law, and he couldn’t help but pity whomever he was after. Hanson was one of the best, almost as brilliant as himself, and if his track record were anything to go by, the perpetrator would be behind bars before he knew what hit him.

Pulling his mind back to the present, he returned Tom’s smile. “Thanks, I appreciate it. But I didn’t expect you to pay.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Tom grinned. “Now, how ‘bout that scotch?”

Feeling as though he were in a dream, Booker followed Tom out the door. When he’d come to Arizona, he never imagined he’d wind up having dinner with an old acquaintance. But life was funny that way, you never knew what was around the corner. As young men, they’d never been close, but Booker couldn't help but wonder if their serendipitous meeting might just put the past to rest, thereby paving the way toward a real friendship. He’d never hated Hanson, they just never really got along. Booker often thought it was because they were too alike. Strangely, he had felt closest to Tom during his incarceration, but his subsequent release put paid to any kind of friendship. He often wished he’d handled things differently, but he wasn't one to live in the past. Time moved forward and looking back didn't change a damn thing. But that didn't mean he didn't want to continue reminiscing with Tom. His former partner had him intrigued, and he hoped after a few more drinks, Tom would loosen up and talk about himself. What he didn’t know was that by the following morning, his life would never be the same again.

**

Taking a sip of scotch, Tom savored the warmth that flared in his throat before the alcohol ignited a pleasing flame in his belly. As the single malt worked its magic, his body started to relax and settling back against the couch cushions, his eyes scanned the luxurious hotel room, eagerly searching for any signs of the cop he used to know. But it appeared the brash, leather-jacketed Booker of the past was long gone, replaced by a refined, stylishly dressed man whose expensive tastes were evident throughout the room. But there was no jealousy in the observation. He had risen to the rank of homicide detective before leaving the force, an achievement he was extremely proud of. And while there was no doubt in his mind Booker was loaded, he sensed money hadn’t brought him happiness. There was an undeniable vulnerability reflected in the ex-cop’s dark, penetrating eyes, a glimmer of loneliness that wasn’t evident eight years ago. Tom knew all too well the drawbacks of spending too much time away from home. Relationships self-destructed, friendships faded, and one day, you woke up and realized the people you once knew no longer cared. Sometimes, it was an inevitable necessity to cut ties, other times, the solitude crept up on you, and before you knew it, life had passed you by, and you were alone. Unsure which scenario applied to Booker, Tom narrowed his eyes and watched the P.I. pour himself a drink. He had a feeling there was an inaccessible part of Booker’s personality he kept hidden, a sliver of his psyche he never exposed, thereby revealing only a shadow of his real self. It was an interesting hypothesis, and one Tom recognized in himself. Fate had dealt him a devastating blow, and he was no longer the man he once was. But for the first time in a long time, that was a part of his past he didn’t want to dwell on. He was enjoying reliving the times he’d shared with Booker, and he didn’t feel guilty putting his mission on hold for one night and living in the now. Life was short, and he knew better than anyone if you didn’t seize the day, you ran the risk of never fulfilling your heart’s desires.

With memories of his past life dominating his thoughts, Tom offered up a long overdue apology. “I never really thanked you for getting me out of prison.”

Booker’s arm froze, his muscles visibly flexing beneath his Ralph Lauren shirt. Placing the bottle of scotch on the small mahogany bar, he turned and faced his guest. “That was unexpected.”

Tom ducked his head, the tips of his fingers rubbing nervously over his lips. “Yeah, I probably should have said it a long time ago. It's my fault they demoted you, and maybe if I’d spoken up, things would have turned out differently.”

“Probably.”

Sensing an element of hostility, Tom knocked back his drink in one mouthful. By misjudging the situation, he’d ruined his one chance, and placing the empty tumbler on the coffee table, he stood up and offered Booker a weak smile. “I should go. It’s been great catching up. See you around.”

“Wait!”

The hastily delivered command stopped Tom in his tracks. But it wasn’t the force behind the plea that had him rethinking his exit. It was the hint of anxiety in Booker’s voice that gave him pause for reflection. He could not remember ever hearing it before, and it was then he realized how much the ex-cop had also changed. Time was the great leveler. They were no longer the same men who, even without provocation, had managed to get under each other’s skin. With the passing of years, their tempers had cooled, and their arrogance had lessened. In short, they’d grown up. And with maturity came wisdom. And with that wisdom came the confidence to be who they really were without fear of ridicule, thereby empowering their lives with a richer understanding. The moment of panic in Booker’s voice added validity to Tom’s observations, and so, rather than storm out the door like the Hanson of old, he remained standing while silently contemplating his next move. He quickly figured he had two options. He could thank Booker for a fun night and leave, or he could swallow his pride, stay, and face the anger he knew was coming. Surprisingly, it wasn’t a difficult choice. Booker’s resentment was justified, and maybe it was time for them to lay their cards on the table and _really_ talk about what had happened with the Crane case. But that was only one part of his reason not to leave. There was a tiny, annoying voice in his head telling him if he walked out the door, he would end up regretting the decision forever. Fate had brought them together for a reason, and he couldn’t pass up the opportunity without at least trying to express all the thoughts and feelings their chance meeting had unleashed. A part of him knew he might end up ruing the day he ever came up with such a hairbrained idea, but if he did, at least he could bury that part of his past and move on. And if he didn’t, well, at least he would finally set free the _what-ifs_ that kept him awake at night.

Inhaling a deep breath, he turned and offered Booker a sad smile. “You have every right to be angry with me, Dennis. Trust me, if I could turn back time and change what happened, I would.”

Touched by the heartfelt admission, the muscles in Booker’s face relaxed. “I don’t want you to turn back time, Tom. I want you to stay.”

“Really?”

The hopeful, high-pitched inflection in Tom’s voice brought a smile to Booker’s lips. “Really. What’s done is done, there’s no point dwelling on it. Now, sit down, and I’ll pour you another drink. We still have a lot of catching up to do.”

Happy to oblige, Tom resumed his place on the couch, a look of quiet satisfaction melting the years from his face. He had no idea where the night would take them, but he was happy in the knowledge neither of them would spend it alone.

_To be continued…_


	4. Take No Thought for the Morrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Previously: With memories of his past life dominating his thoughts, Tom offered up a long overdue apology. “I never really thanked you for getting me out of prison.”_
> 
> _Booker’s arm froze, his muscles visibly flexing beneath his Ralph Lauren shirt. Placing the bottle of scotch on the small mahogany bar, he turned and faced his guest. “That was unexpected.”_
> 
> _Tom ducked his head, the tips of his fingers rubbing nervously over his lips. “Yeah, I probably should have said it a long time ago. It's my fault they demoted you, and maybe if I’d spoken up, things would have turned out differently.”_
> 
> _“Probably.”_
> 
> _Sensing an element of hostility, Tom knocked back his drink in one mouthful. By misjudging the situation, he’d ruined his one chance, and placing the empty tumbler on the coffee table, he stood up and offered Booker a weak smile. “I should go. It’s been great catching up. See you around.”_
> 
> _“Wait!”_
> 
> _The hastily delivered command stopped Tom in his tracks. But it wasn’t the force behind the plea that had him rethinking his exit. It was the hint of anxiety in Booker’s voice that gave him pause for reflection. He could not remember ever hearing it before, and it was then he realized how much the ex-cop had also changed. Time was the great leveler. They were no longer the same men who, even without provocation, had managed to get under each other’s skin. With the passing of years, their tempers had cooled, and their arrogance had lessened. In short, they’d grown up. And with maturity came wisdom. And with that wisdom came the confidence to be who they really were without fear of ridicule, thereby empowering their lives with a richer understanding. The moment of panic in Booker’s voice added validity to Tom’s observations, and so, rather than storm out the door like the Hanson of old, he remained standing while silently contemplating his next move. He quickly figured he had two options. He could thank Booker for a fun night and leave, or he could swallow his pride, stay, and face the anger he knew was coming. Surprisingly, it wasn’t a difficult choice. Booker’s resentment was justified, and maybe it was time for them to lay their cards on the table and really talk about what had happened with the Crane case. But that was only one part of his reason not to leave. There was a tiny, annoying voice in his head telling him if he walked out the door, he would end up regretting the decision forever. Fate had brought them together for a reason, and he couldn’t pass up the opportunity without at least trying to express all the thoughts and feelings their chance meeting had unleashed. A part of him knew he might end up ruing the day he ever came up with such a hairbrained idea, but if he did, at least he could bury that part of his past and move on. And if he didn’t, well, at least he would finally set free the what-ifs that kept him awake at night._
> 
> _Inhaling a deep breath, he turned and offered Booker a sad smile. “You have every right to be angry with me, Dennis. Trust me, if I could turn back time and change what happened, I would.”_
> 
> _Touched by the heartfelt admission, the muscles in Booker’s face relaxed. “I don’t want you to turn back time, Tom. I want you to stay.”_
> 
> _“Really?”_
> 
> _The hopeful, high-pitched inflection in Tom’s voice brought a smile to Booker’s lips. “Really. What’s done is done, there’s no point dwelling on it. Now, sit down, and I’ll pour you another drink. We still have a lot of catching up to do.”_
> 
> _Happy to oblige, Tom resumed his place on the couch, a look of quiet satisfaction melting the years from his face. He had no idea where the night would take them, but he was happy in the knowledge neither of them would spend it alone._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/41316796274/in/dateposted-public/)

_**March 30th, 1997 (12.53 a.m.)** _

Despite the awkwardness of Tom’s apology, the conversation continued to flow, along with the scotch. Memories of Jump Street dominated the dialogue, and although Booker regretted not putting the circumstances of his resignation to rest after so many years of animosity, he was enjoying his jaunt down memory lane too much to sacrifice the companionable mood. Let bygones be bygones his grandmother always said, and with time came forgiveness. Yes, maybe Tom should have spoken up, but he didn’t regret the direction his life had taken. If anything, he had embraced the freedom his career change had afforded him. Leaving the force had given him the confidence to go out on his own, and so, in a strange, twisted way, he owed Tom a debt of gratitude. It was a new and far more pleasant way to view his unceremonious demotion, and he was grateful he had the opportunity to put his resentment into perspective. Bitterness was an unattractive characteristic, and he’d worn his anger like a faint scar, visible, but only to those closest to his heart. But he was willing to make the change, to leave the past where it belonged, and forgive those who may or may not have influenced his fate.

Rising to his feet, Booker wandered over to the bar and poured himself another drink. He was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol circulating through his system, the added endorphins lulling his mind into a state of soothing quietude. He felt completely relaxed for the first time in years, and he wondered if the memories of his past somehow held the key to a happy future. The easy-going back and forth with Hanson was more cathartic than he ever would have imagined. Especially given their history. He’d never considered Tom a friend, and yet there they were, drinking and chatting like long lost buddies. It was confusing, to say the least, but it was not his place to question the eccentricities of the universe. Fate had brought them together for a reason, and he was more than happy to move forward so that maybe, they could build a lasting relationship in the future.

Satisfied with his reasoning, he picked up his drink and turned around, only to find Tom standing behind him, his face just inches from his own. Surprised by the close contact, he flinched, the involuntary movement causing droplets of amber fluid to spill over his hand. “Jesus, Hanson,” he chastised. “Don’t sneak up on a guy with a gun.”

A slow, seductive smile curved the corners of Tom’s lips and tilting his head to one side, he studied Booker’s flushed face. “Have you ever slept with a man, Dennis?”

Dennis’ eyes bulged ever so slightly and placing his drink down on the bar before he spilled any more of the expensive scotch, he wiped his hand on a bar towel. “N-No,” he replied with a nervous laugh. “Why do you ask?”

“Do you want to?”

All the air in Booker’s lungs expelled with an audible _whoosh,_ and he stared at Tom with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Wh- _what?”_

Tom’s expression remained tranquil. “I asked if you want to have sex with me.”

Pushing past his friend, Booker walked over to his luggage, and opening another bottle of scotch, he gulped down several mouthfuls before confronting his guest. “What are you playing at? Is this some kind of sick joke? Do you hate me _that_ much, you pretend you’re pleased to see me so you can _humiliate_ me one last time?”

A look of sadness passed over Tom’s face, but when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm. “It’s not a joke, Dennis. I want to know if you feel it.”

Knocking back another belt of scotch, Booker recapped the bottle and placed it on the nightstand. Wiping a trembling hand over his mouth, he pushed for an answer. “Feel _what,_ exactly?”

“This _thing_ between us...this _energy.”_

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?”

A long, drawn-out silence followed Tom’s softly-spoken question. Heavy, palpable, it hung in the air between the two men, a tangible presence waiting for an answer. Heat prickled Booker’s skin, Tom’s inquiring look igniting a fire in the dying embers of his soul. His friend had awakened in him a long-forgotten memory, and as he stared into the soulful depths of Tom’s dark eyes, he realized he’d completely misread their relationship all those years ago. What he’d mistakenly thought of as hostility was actually an emotion far more passionate than he could ever have imagined. The bickering, the deliberate provocation, the constant and often brutal antagonism were not signs of animosity. In fact, they were the exact opposite. He _had_ felt a spark between them, but he was too naive, or perhaps too frightened to acknowledge its true meaning. And so, he’d passed it off as a clash of personalities while successfully ignoring the strange yet oh-so-familiar feeling that snaked through his groin every time they’d fought. There was something about Tom that roused in him an emotion he hadn’t known existed. A curiosity, a primal urge suppressed by modern-day conventions. Eight years ago, he would never have dreamed of acting on such an impulse. He had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and any thought of male-on-male action was not only laughable, it was downright ludicrous. But eight years was a lifetime ago, and a lot had changed. _He’d_ changed, and he was surprised how much he wanted to explore the possibility of gay sex. But not just a romp in the hay with any nameless man, sex with Tom Hanson, the one person he thought hated him more than his first wife. It was mind-blowing in its bizarreness, and yet, there was a small part of the whole concept that felt so right, almost as if he’d been waiting for the day to arrive without ever realizing it. Tom’s forthright proposal had opened a myriad of possibilities, and with it, the chance to spend one night free from the shackles of society's norms while experiencing something potentially life-changing. The ball was in his court, all he had to do was say yes, and his repressed fantasy would become a reality. Say yes, and he might just know the meaning of true love.

Sensing Booker’s conflicting emotions, Tom stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry. I should never have said anything.”

In Booker’s mind, it didn’t take a genius to figure out Tom was offering him an easy way out of an awkward situation. All he had to do was laugh it off, and life would return to normal. But now the words were out in the universe, he felt an inexplicable need to hear the truth. And so, against his better judgment, he ignored the nagging voice inside his head telling him to leave well enough alone and asked what was foremost on his mind. “So, why did you?”

It was a simple question that deserved an honest answer and taking a deep breath, Tom spoke from the heart. “Because I was in love with you all those years ago.”

If Jesus Christ himself had walked into the room, Booker could not have shown more surprise. He stared at Tom, his mouth slightly open, his eyes boggling in their sockets. Time stood still, the weighty _thump-thump-thumpity-thump_ of his heart the only sound echoing in his ears. Tom had loved him. Tom...had... _loved..._ him. The absurdity of the statement was almost too much to deal with, and yet, if he were completely candid with himself, a part of him had always known. Not in the sense of _actually_ knowing, but he’d always suspected there was something different about his and Tom’s relationship. Yes, he’d behaved like a conceited jackass on their first assignment, but that didn’t account for the strange vibe he’d always felt whenever the two of them were together. But now he knew the reason why, he wasn’t entirely sure how to process the new-found information. Was he horrified? Flattered? Indifferent? Unable to make up his mind, he continued to gape at his former partner, his thoughts in a whirl. Tom had loved him, and suddenly, everything he thought he knew, no longer made sense. It made no sense at all, but surprisingly, the more he thought about it, the more he didn’t care. Tired of being alone, he wanted one night of indulgence, one night where he could throw caution to the wind and experience what it felt like to be truly loved by someone who had carried a torch for him for nearly a decade. And having planted the seed, the longing started to grow, and licking his lips, he searched his soul before finally asking the question that had the potential to change his life forever. “Are you trying to seduce me, Hanson?”

Encouraged, Tom’s hand found its way behind Booker’s head, his fingers lightly toying with the soft hairs at the nape of his friend’s neck. “If I was, would you let me?”

The soft, alluring tone of Tom’s voice sent a thrill of excitement pulsing through Booker’s groin, and gulping down the last of his inhibitions, he stared directly into his friend’s dark eyes and gave his answer. “Yes.”

A low moan rumbled in the back of Tom’s throat, and moving closer, he breathed in the heady scent of Booker’s aftershave. “Can I kiss you?”

“God, _yes.”_

“Oh, baby,” Tom breathed, and cupping Booker’s face in his hand, he lightly brushed his lips against the warm, inviting flesh of his soft pout. 

The tenderness of his kiss surprised Booker. Sweet and chaste, the gentle motion of Tom’s lips sent waves of arousal pulsating through his body. Blood flowed to the surface of his skin, heating his flesh and hardening his cock. Needing more, he parted his lips, his tongue sweeping along Tom’s bottom lip, inviting him to explore his mouth without restraint. Their tongues met, hesitant at first, plump flesh on plump flesh, touching, tasting, testing each other’s likes and dislikes. Growing bolder, Tom’s fingers worked the buckle of Booker’s belt, and in moments he’d expertly freed the leather strap. He wasted no time popping the button of his lover’s pants, and slowly lowering the zipper, he allowed the heavy fabric to fall to the floor. 

A delicious tingle snaked through Booker’s groin. “What are we doing?” he whispered, sweeping tendrils of his breath lightly caressing the plush flesh of Tom’s lips.

“Living the dream.”

Tom’s breathless answer sent a tingle of anticipation pulsating through Booker’s body, the electrifying charge adding length to his already impressive appendage. Never had he felt so alive, so _liberated._ It was a defining moment in a lifetime of heterosexual sex, and at that moment, he wondered why he had never considered _gay_ sex. But as light fingers lovingly caressed his buttocks, he couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t the idea of sex with another man that turned him on, but sex with Tom Hanson. The soft, feathery strokes sparked a desire so strong, he feared making a complete ass out of himself by blowing his load before he’d even taken his clothes off. But the depth of love shining from Tom’s eyes instantly soothed his panic, and pushing the unwanted thoughts from his mind, he took pleasure from the tender touch.

Eager to explore Booker’s taut, muscular body, Tom gently maneuvered him until he was standing next to the bed. “Strip,” he instructed in a soft voice.

In a sexually induced, dream-like state, Booker kicked off his shoes and slowly undressed. Once released from its confines, his cock jutted out from a nest of coarse, dark curls, his erection thick and potent. Under Tom’s watchful gaze, blood rushed through his shaft, hardening him further, his smooth, mushroom-shaped cockhead blushing purple. Bewildered by the speed of his growing awakening, his mind struggled to deal with his conflicting emotions. Arousal and uncertainty fought for dominance over his body, but it was curiosity that eventually won him over. Curiosity and a rock-hard erection. He wanted it, he _needed_ it, and despite his internal conflict, he knew in his heart if he didn’t take a chance on love, he might just live with the regret forever.

Tom remained standing, watching his lover undress, his hungry gaze devouring each piece of exposed flesh as soon as it was revealed. Visibly moved by the erotic sight standing before him, he traced a finger over Booker’s six-pack. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Embarrassed, yet secretly pleased, Booker lowered his eyes, his cheeks coloring a delicate shade of pink. A sweet, knowing smile graced Tom’s lips. He understood his lover’s vulnerability, and taking his wallet from his pocket, he tossed it on the bed and quickly removed his clothes.

Curiosity soon got the better of Booker. Raising his head, his gaze roved over the length of Tom’s naked body before coming to rest on his magnificent erection. Sucking in his breath, he continued to stare, the titillating vision sending another rush of blood to his penis. But his eyes were soon distracted by the thick hypertrophic scar extending across the left side of Tom’s lower abdomen. Approximately six inches in length, the jagged wound sliced through his smooth skin, disfiguring the perfect canvas of his taut flesh. The sight was so confronting, Booker forgot all about his nudity, and reaching out a hand, he lightly stroked the raised tissue. “Jesus, Tom. What happened?”

“Angry puppy,” Tom lied, his mouth exploring the sweet, succulent flesh of Booker’s neck. 

“Tom—”

“Lie down. I wanna taste you.”

Distracted by his throbbing erection, Booker gave into his desires. Lowering himself onto the mattress, he stretched out, his heart beating a rhythmic tattoo in his ears. When Tom climbed onto the bed, he held his breath...waiting...watching...a thousand thoughts rushing through his mind. He’d never felt so nervous, and yet, he couldn’t ignore his growing excitement. The rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins had heightened his senses and stimulated his mind, leaving him aching for contact. He was ready, _more_ than ready, and judging by the size of his lover’s erection, so was Tom.

Straddling Booker’s legs, Tom dropped to his hands, his body hovering over his lover’s quivering flesh, just out of reach...teasing...taunting...his long hair tickling Booker’s flushed face. A dark intensity shone from his eyes, and ducking his head, he trailed his tongue over the firm edge of Booker’s jawline. Their lips met, pressing and caressing, savoring each other’s flavor with sweeping tongues and hungry mouths. But Tom wanted to explore and grazing his teeth over Booker’s lower lip, his mouth left the sensual curve and moved slowly along a stubbled cheek until he found an earlobe. Using his teeth, he lightly nibbled the smooth flesh. Sensing Booker wanted more contact, he buried his face in the crook of his lover’s neck, inhaling the warm, masculine scent of scotch and aftershave before brushing a kiss over the sensitive spot just below his ear. A soft murmur caught his attention, and smiling against the taut skin, he continued his exploration, his tongue trailing a wet path down to the hollow of Booker’s throat. His mouth nipped and sucked at the firm, inviting flesh, moving slowly downward until he reached a nipple. He grazed the nub with his teeth, his efforts immediately rewarded with a moan of approval. Flicking his tongue over the raised mound, he teased the tight knot of skin before lightly mouthing over the warm flesh. His soft lips sucked the brown areola, the tender caress eliciting an excited moan from above. When gentle hands entwined in his hair, he continued his journey by lovingly kissing a trail down the flawless skin of Booker’s firm torso. Reaching the flesh just below his rib cage, he paused, his ears tuned into his lover’s heavy breathing. Using his tongue, he lapped at the area before parting his lips and gently sucking the smooth skin into his mouth, expertly increasing pressure until blood pooled to the surface. Pleased with the result, he traced the contours of Booker’s stomach muscles with his tongue, his light, teasing caresses moving him ever closer to his destination. His lover’s penis lay swollen and erect against his belly, the blushing head shiny with pre-cum. Enticed by the scent of sex, he pressed his lips against the underside of Booker’s shaft and trailing his tongue along the wrinkled flesh, he teased and coaxed with long feathery strokes. When he reached the head, he lightly flicked his tongue over the tip, the spicy tang of his lover’s essence titillating his taste buds. He’d waited nearly a decade to sample Dennis’ salty nectar, and he savored every burst of flavor as it rolled over his tongue. What was once a dream had become a 3D, surround sound reality, and he stored every scent, every touch, every drop of pre-cum to the annals of his mind. After three long years of living a life trapped within the horror of a never-ending nightmare, he finally had something to hang onto, if only for the briefest of moments.

Warm tendrils of air licked over Booker’s erection, the erotic sensation sending a tremor of delight through the length of his body. “Yes,” he breathed, his fingers knotting in the soft strands of Tom’s hair. “Fuck yes.”

Encouraged by the enthusiastic response, Tom took their coupling to the next level. Gently pushing open Booker’s left leg, he peppered a trail of light kisses up his inner thigh. Quivering muscles trembled beneath his lips and smiling against the taut skin, his mouth moved slowly higher until he reached the soft indentation of the gluteal fold. He paused, waiting for consent. When urgent fingers massaged his scalp, he took it as a sign, and using his hand, he began a gentle exploration of Dennis' scrotum. With skilled artistry, he lightly pinched and rolled the folds of skin between his thumb and forefinger, drawing pleasure from the tactile sensation. The raspy sound of Booker’s breathing sounded from above, and eager to gratify, he gently massaged the hard mound while pulling the sac down and away from his body. The light, tugging motion exposed the nerve endings, increasing sensitivity, and Booker exhaled a loud, excited moan. Never had a lover paid such undivided attention to his physical needs, and he couldn't wait to see what Tom did next.

Focusing all his attention on satisfying his lover, Tom carefully lifted his testicles and stimulated the flesh of his perineum with his lips. A loud hiss resonated around the room and growing more brazen, he darted out his tongue and lightly probed his lover’s anus. 

Surprised by the unexpected contact, Booker’s muscles tensed, and he instinctively flinched. Sensing an aversion to the oral stimulation, Tom moved away and continued his exploration of his lover’s testicles, his warm lips massaging the velvety skin with soft, gentle sucks. 

Visibly relaxing, Booker entwined his fingers in Tom’s hair and gently coaxed his head higher. “Suck me,” he commanded, his hips gyrating upward.

Feeling Booker’s body trembling beneath him, Tom released his testicles and playfully swept his tongue up the length of his cock. Pausing, he darted out his tongue and licked a bubble of pre-cum from the tip. A frustrated groan sounded in his ears and taking the hint, he took Booker into his mouth, his lips lovingly sucking up and down his erect shaft. Taking his time, he lapped and sucked the swollen appendage, swirling his tongue over the sensitive tip before repeating the motion with varying degrees of intensity. As his head bobbed up and down, a burst of precum danced over his taste buds, the salty tang warning him his lover was close to ejaculating. Not wanting their night to end before he’d had a chance to prove his love, he gave Booker’s engorged head one last suck before releasing the erect cock from his mouth. A disappointed groan met his ears, but he refused to bow down. He wanted to give Booker a life-changing gift, and lifting his head, he gazed into his heavy-lidded eyes and voiced his desire. “I want to make love to you.”

Uncertainty clouded Booker’s eyes. He hadn’t really considered what it meant to have penetrative sex, but now the moment had arrived, the prospect terrified him. But as he gazed up at Tom, he could physically feel the warmth of his love penetrating his soul and pushing aside all his fears, he whispered his answer. “Okay.”

Heat flared in the pit of Tom’s stomach, and sitting up, he reached for his wallet. Under Booker’s curious gaze, he pulled out a wrapped condom and small tube of lubricant. The first thing that crossed the dark-haired investigator’s mind was why the hell did Tom have a tube of lube in his wallet? But when Hanson unwrapped the condom and expertly rolled it onto his erect penis, any cognitive thought he had left, disappeared in a surge of testosterone. He was about to have penetrative sex with a man, but not just any man, he was about to have penetrative sex with Tom Hanson, and the concept was slowly blowing his mind.

Picking up the tube of lubrication, Tom unscrewed the cap and liberally coated his fingers and sheathed penis in the oily substance. His eyes never left Booker’s intense gaze, his mind closely monitoring his lover’s reaction. It wouldn’t be the first time a _gay sex virgin_ changed his mind, and he would never consider pressuring an unwilling partner to continue if he had second thoughts. But all traces of uncertainty had disappeared from Booker’s eyes. In its place, a blazing, insatiable hunger burned bright, and it was then he knew he would finally experience the wonder of making love to the first man he’d ever fallen in love with.

Tossing the tube of lube onto the mattress, Tom stroked a slick finger up the underside of Booker’s cock, his dark eyes shining with tender understanding. “Ready?”

Cocooned within the loving sensitivity of Tom’s gaze, Booker nodded. When a gentle finger pressed against his anus, he swallowed deeply and concentrated on his breathing. But as his lover’s finger inched its way inside, he switched his focus to the strange sensation spreading through his insides. While not the most pleasant feeling, it wasn’t painful, and slowly, his muscles started to relax, allowing his lover easier access.

When the tight wall of muscle surrounding Tom’s finger loosened, he withdrew the digit to the tip and carefully inserted a second finger. Crooking his middle finger, he expertly found Booker’s prostate and lightly caressed the gland. Instinctively, Booker’s body bore down, his weight pushing the digit against the sensitive lobe. The light flickering in his eyes brightened, and a throaty moan expelled from between his lips. _“Oooh.”_

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Tom murmured, his gaze focused on Booker’s sated expression as he continued to caress his g-spot.

“Fuck yeah,” Booker breathed, his eyes fluttering closed. “It feels fucking amazing.”

As his fingers worked their magic, Tom soaked up the erotic sight laid out before him. “Oh, baby,” he whispered. “You are so fucking beautiful right now.”

With his heart pounding a rapid beat of want and desire, Booker opened his eyes. The gentleness of Tom’s smile sent his heart aflutter, and reaching out a hand, he lightly caressed his cheek. “I want to feel you inside me.”

A burst of pure love flashed in Tom’s eyes, and removing his fingers, he dropped to his hands and planted a tender kiss on Booker’s lips. “Are you sure,” he murmured against the plump, warm flesh of his lover’s mouth.

“Yes,” Booker breathed. “I’m sure.”

Positioning himself between his lover’s open legs, Tom guided his erection until the tip pressed against his entrance. The moment he’d dreamed about was about to become a reality and taking a deep breath, he pushed inside. Slowly rocking his hips forward and backward, he basked in the sensation of his slick cock sliding in and out of Booker’s tight anus. The complexities of his personality were reflected in his lovemaking. Gentle yet passionate, restrained yet evocative, he wore his emotions openly, revealing every aspect of his soul with each loving thrust. But the transparency did not transpose to his everyday life. Secrecy was his only weapon, seclusion his only protection, but for one night, he had the freedom to express himself, and he’d forgotten how much he missed the intimacy of real human contact. It wasn’t about sex, it was about abandoning all of life’s constraints and expressing his love, and he hadn’t had the opportunity to do so in a very long time. His life was no longer his own, he was a slave to the cause, but he hoped one day, he would regain all he had lost.

The erotic sensation of a thick cock filling the emptiness inside him was unlike anything Booker had ever imagined. His flesh came alive…tingling…pulsing…the vibrations of Tom’s lovemaking sending waves of arousal throughout his entire body. Never had he felt so in tune with his own existence, and he physically ached for the touch of the man who, in a few short hours, had changed his whole world. Reaching out a hand, he grasped hold of his lover’s upper arms, his nails biting into the pale flesh. “Harder,” he urged. “Fuck me harder.”

Tom immediately responded to Booker’s request by lengthening his strokes, thrusting faster until he was ramming against him, his balls swinging free, the upward propulsion forcing his cock deeper into his lover’s anus. Booker’s cock bounced against his belly, the momentum of Tom’s frantic thrusting propelling his body back and forth in a rhythmic dance of love and lust. But it wasn’t enough. Every inch of him screamed to be touched, and wrapping his arms around his lover’s neck, he forcefully pulled him down on top of him. Their sweat-soaked bodies melded as one, uniting them in a passionate embrace. They found each other’s mouths… tongues plundering…teeth clashing…their primal urges coming to the fore. The delicious friction of Tom’s belly rubbing against his cock released a deep moan from the back of Booker’s throat, the double stimulation pushing him to the limits of his self-control. A strangled cry caught in his throat and tensing his muscles, he thrust upward and forcefully ejaculated over his chest.

Abruptly breaking the kiss, Tom’s dark eyes locked on Booker’s, and with one final thrust, his back arched, and with a long drawn out moan, he too, shuddered out his release.

The scent of testosterone-fueled sex filled the air, the sound of heavy panting echoing off the cream-painted walls. Eventually, their breathing slowed, and gently disengaging, Tom flopped down on the bed and pulled Booker into his arms, his face nuzzling into the crook of his neck. “Okay, baby?”

“Mmm,” Booker hummed, the pleasant tingle coiling through his muscles drawing him toward slumber. Breathing in the scent of sex and sweat, he snuggled into the warmth of this lover’s body and closed his eyes. Visions of a life with Tom floated through his mind, and he started making plans for their future. But the allure of sleep was too strong and exhaling a sated sigh, he allowed his tired mind to tumble toward the comforting images of his dreams.

**

Rising from the bed, Tom padded into the bathroom and relieved his aching bladder. Not wanting to wake his lover, he closed the lid without flushing and moved over to the sink. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, the ghost of his past staring back at him with dull, haunted eyes. Afraid the phantom image would suck the last vestige of happiness from his heart, he looked away and concentrated on washing his hands. Making love to Booker had given his life meaning by reigniting the spark inside his soul, creating a glimmer of hope for the future. After a break of a few months, he felt recharged, and he was once again ready to resume his mission. But his newfound fervor came at a price. He was a solo act, and that meant leaving Booker behind.

Turning off the faucet, he dried his hands and walked into the bedroom. After sorting through the jumble of clothing littering the floor, he quietly dressed, purposely ignoring the worn bandanna flung over a chair. Spying his wallet on the nightstand, he moved across the room and picked it up, staring at the cracked leather before shoving it in his pocket. As he turned to leave, a notepad and pen caught his eye. An emotional lump formed in his throat, and picking up the ball-point, he scribbled a note.

Placing the pen back on the nightstand, Tom stared down at Booker’s sleeping face, a tear of regret glistening in his eye. “I love you, Dennis,” he whispered, and with one, last, lingering look, he turned and walked out the door.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **And so ends this little tale. Thanks to all of you who have read and supported my work. Without you, my efforts are pointless. ******
> 
> **In peace,**   
>  **OpenPage x**

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/156893755@N07/41136887375/in/dateposted-public/)

_**March 30th, 1997 (6.18 a.m.)**_

Booker sat on the edge of the rumpled bed, his shoulders slumped, his mind numb. Tom’s bandanna dangled from between his thumb and forefinger, a tangible reminder of all he had lost. On the nightstand, a message printed in his lover’s messy hand expressed a final goodbye, the heartfelt words forever seared in his heart.

**I wish we could have stayed like this forever.**

It was a testament of love from a man who, in a matter of hours, had shown him what it was like to feel real love. A chance meeting had brought them together before Tom had vanished from his life like the figments of a dream, leaving no address, no phone number, no trace of his existence except a handwritten note and a worn piece of material. Booker’s loss was palpable, and balling the bandanna in his hand, he stared at the empty bottle of scotch sitting on the bar. He would never have believed a one-night stand could hurt so much. But it did. It burned, and knowing he had no control over the outcome, made the hurt that much more difficult to bear. His lover was gone, and he only had himself to blame.

If only he’d done things differently.

_Finis_


End file.
